Vengeance
by Duck Life
Summary: Nineteen years after the final battle, Harry must fight alongside his children...Because Voldemort isn't gone as you might think. Please R&R!
1. Prologue

It was early, early morning. The faintest rays of light were just beginning to splinter over the horizon. Everyone in Hogwarts castle, though they had originally been intent on staying up all night and celebrating Voldemort's defeat, had exhaustedly retired to their warm four-poster beds. For those that weren't students, rows of beds had been conjured up in the Great Hall. Everyone was sound asleep. That is, almost everyone.

A small, dark-haired Slytherin girl still roamed the halls. She was a second-year, but quite bright for her age. Professor Flitwick had once even predicted that, if she took her O.W.L.s then, in only her second year, she would receive an O in every test. However, the girl, no matter how much the teachers praised her, strived to never be noticed. Her hair always hung in a curtain over her face. She very seldom spoke, and did only in a whisper. She had no friends but the heavy, torn books she read that were almost certainly restricted. Because of this, Hermione Granger had once approached her, hoping to befriend the shy girl, as she too was usually to be found buried in a book, but backed away when she saw the girl's venomous stare. Indeed, the girl enjoyed her privacy.

On this dark end to such an eventful day, the girl was wandering through a corridor near the Great Hall, searching. She cracked doors open, slowly as she could so as not to wake anyone with the creak of rusty hinges. With each door she opened, her tread became heavier and she more disappointed. Her search left her weary and tired, but still she searched on. Finally, she found the right room. A devious smile played across her lips as she opened the door wider and entered the room. It was a simple classroom, with a large chalkboard at the front, rows of desks in the middle, and a small cupboard in the back. The only thing that made it any different from another average classroom was the white corpse lying on the floor.

The girl examined the corpse- its empty eyes, limp arms, and pale, dead face. Her heart raced. Eventually, the girl finished examining the dead body and stood up. She unsheathed her wand and directed it at the body. "_Locomotor mortis_," she whispered. The corpse rose in the air and floated there, about two feet above the ground. The girl walked away carefully, flicking her wand to bring the body along with her. She walked like this, her wand extended towards the airborne body, until she reached the Forbidden Forest on the grounds. Carefully, watching the suspended lifeless body, she made her way through the trees without fear. She traveled quickly, and soon reached a clearing in the woods. She let the body fall and turned away from it. A clear patch of ground lay in front of her. With a flick of her wand, the girl removed a large portion of the dirt and let it settle in a pile some distance away. At her feet was a perfectly rectangular hole. As she was admiring it, she noticed something glinting near its corner and went to investigate. It shimmered in the moonlight.

Upon picking the strange object up, she realized that it was a ring: A dusty gold ring, set with a large black stone with a crack down its center. She studied it for a while, and then walked over to where she had left the motionless corpse. It watched her as she slipped the ring on its finger. After kissing it ceremoniously, the girl lowered the body into the grave and covered it with the earth, where it would lay for nineteen years.

With a sadistic grin, Isabella Lestrange loped away.


	2. These Dreams Are Dark

_Wormtail cringed before a fire. A black, gnarled wand was directed at him, held by a pale, spider-like hand. _

_Death Eaters gathered around the high chair, clearly frightened. His wand was directed at them._

_A scream echoed through the white emptiness. The terrifying creature writhed and whimpered, out of his sight._

_A tall, pale man wandered through the forest. Insubstantial as mist, he weaved through trees, becoming more and more distinct…_

"Morning, Harry!" called Ginny, jerking her husband from his deep sleep. He fumbled out from under his covers. Bright sunlight streamed through the windows, likely melting all the snow that had fallen the previous day. Harry rubbed his eyes sleepily and reached for his glasses. "You okay?" asked Ginny. "You were fidgeting all night. Did you have a bad dream?"

"Maybe," answered Harry tiredly. "I can't remember." He sat up and rubbed his forehead. "I've got a headache."

"Here," said Ginny kindly. "I made you breakfast." She waved her wand and a tray floated into the bedroom. It was laden with all sorts of wonderful breakfast food: French toast, egg casserole, flapjacks drowning in syrup and butter, blueberry muffins, strawberries, bananas, strips of bacon, sausage patties, and two glasses of iced pumpkin juice.

"Thanks," smiled Harry, reaching for a glass of pumpkin juice. Ginny took a sip of hers as well. They sat in silence for a while, feasting on the delicious meal.

"Don't forget," began Ginny, "Albus and James are coming home today for Christmas."

"Right," answered Harry. "Hey, where's Lily?"

"Still asleep," replied Ginny airily. Harry nodded distractedly, thinking of the ream he had been having before he woke up. It had definitely seemed like he'd had the same dream before- or rather, the night's dream had been a collaboration of several dreams he'd had before. Wormtail had definitely been in part of the dream- this was strange, as Harry had hardly thought of him since that last battle at Hogwarts. And there had been Death Eaters- a semi-circle of them, surrounded around someone: him. Only it hadn't been him. It had been Voldemort.

Harry shook himself mentally. He had no reason to worry. They were just memories. He'd definitely had these dreams before. They were no more than reminders of darker times and more worrisome slumbers. However, the last dream he had definitely _not _seen before. Looking back on it, he realized that he had no memory of ever experiencing it before.

"Harry?" asked Ginny. Only then did he realize that her hand was on his shoulder.

"Yeah?" he answered, jerking out of his ponderings.

"Harry, what's wrong?" Ginny was concerned.

"Nothing's wrong," he answered, trying to force himself to believe what he said.

"Really, Harry, tell me the truth," insisted Ginny. "You're not listening to anything I say. What are you thinking about?" Harry gazed into her fretful brown eyes, wishing he could make the worry in them go away, and yet unsure as to how to make the worry he felt himself dissolve as well.

"I'm just thinking about the holidays, and Albus and James coming home." He said it casually, hoping she would believe his lie.

"Okay," she said, "But could you please listen to me? I was telling you what you need to get at Diagon Alley for their Christmas presents." Harry smiled; Ginny was perfect at picking out gifts for people. They discussed gifts and such until the tray of food was empty, and Ginny left to return it to the kitchen and let Harry dress.

He kept his mind empty as he pulled on his trousers and slipped on a plain T-shirt. Thoughts of his strange dreams didn't return to him as he pulled on his flowing cloak and stepped into his sneakers. "Harry!" called Ginny from downstairs. "Hurry! The train will be pulling into the station soon!" He rushed down the stairs, nearly colliding with Lily, who was dawdling at the foot of the steps.

"Morning, Daddy!" she sang, skipping towards the front door, where Ginny was waiting impatiently.

"Hurry!" she repeated. Ginny agonized every year over being late to get her sons from the train station.

"Ginny, we'll be on time." Harry said it in an exasperated way, but he was grinning. Ginny's brow furrowed. "Look, if worse comes to worse, the kids can Side-Apparate." Ginny rolled her eyes, but pecked her husband on the cheek and took his hand.

"Come along, then," she said to Lily, and they swept out the door.

During the car ride, Harry took time to mull over the strange dreams he had had. There seemed to something ominous about the new dream. Then again, it could have just been his imagination.

Harry's headache worsened as Ginny hurried him to the platform entrance. Everything seemed dark and shadowy, and it was difficult to remain focused. Ginny actually had to shake him several times to get him to walk through the barrier. Once on the other side, he could hear the hubbub of children rushing off the train. Everything seemed muddled. Harry rubbed his aching right temple, trying to come to his senses. He heard people talking as if from a great distance. "Harry?" asked Ginny loudly. Her voice seemed muffled. Shadows and smoke filled the platform, shrouding people in thick black steam. He saw faces: Ginny's, with a worried expression. His daughter's, her brow wrinkled in anxiety, for even she at her young age knew her father was acting oddly. He saw an face he could swear he had never seen before, and yet it seemed somehow familiar- that of a dark young woman, standing alone. The mist around him subsided, and he saw the tall, pale figure of a man with venomous red eyes and pale, spider-like hands… and then he collapsed.


	3. In The Back Of My Mind

Harry clumsily covered his eyes with his fist when bright light exploded behind his eyelids. A warm hand tenderly stroked his face. "Please wake up," his wife pleaded. He moved his fists and looked up at her. She had been crying. As soon as she realized that his emerald eyes were open, she hugged him heartily and kissed him. "Harry, I was so worried!" Ginny cried. He stared at her confusedly.

"What… happened?" he asked tiredly. She smiled, wiping a tear off of her cheek.

"You fainted," she told him.

"AGAIN?!" yelled Harry, sitting up quickly. Ginny jumped back in fright.

"It's okay, Harry," she murmured, hoping to calm him down. He stared at her.

"Sorry," he grunted. "Really," he added more gently. "It just seems that I've spent half my life unconscious."

"Not half your life," she laughed, returning to his bedside. "Just most of the time you've spent after you went to Hogwarts." He smiled. Something pressed against his memory, lurking in the shadows of his mind, but he pressed it back. Everything was okay.

"Where are the kids?" he asked, looking around.

"The boys went out to play Quidditch, and Lily is reading," she answered, glancing out the window as a broomstick zoomed past it. "How do you feel?" asked Ginny. He considered her question slowly.

"Hungry," he answered. She laughed and helped him out of his bed. He felt sore from the fall he must have taken. Ginny led him down the stairs and to the kitchen, worried that he would pass out again. He hated how he'd worried her. "I'm fine," he muttered, pulling out a loaf of bread and some salami. Ginny pulled out two butterbeers and set them on the table. When Harry put his sandwich in front of a chair, he replaced one of the butterbeers with a glass of firewhisky. Ginny raised her eyebrows. "I'm fine," he repeated, sitting down. He was lost in his thoughts as he chewed his sandwich, and he desperately wanted to escape them.

"Are the boys excited to be back home?" he asked absently, thinking of the unknown notion hiding in the back of his mind. He knew that _something _had happened, but he couldn't remember what it was.

"Yes," said Ginny, watching him worriedly as he contemplated the memory. It was just beyond his reach… "Lily was happy to see them."

"Are we going Christmas shopping soon?" he asked, reviewing his muddy recollection of their visit to Platform 9 ¾ .

"Harry," laughed Ginny, "I told you that this morning. Weren't you lis-"

"Voldemort's alive!" he yelled as the memory jerked into place. Ginny paled and Harry froze as he realized what he had said- because he knew that it was true. The Dark Lord was back.


	4. Mister Cellophane

In a small house in Britain, there lived a small British man called John Dunnery. He was unnoticeable, and nearly invisible. He was not a bad man, nor was he a good man. He neither liked nor disliked anything. He was positively neutral, absolutely bland, and boring. In other words, he was the perfect victim of anyone who wanted to kill him and stay undiscovered.

However, who would want to kill him? He had no opinions, no distinguishing characteristics, and he had never done anything important- for someone to kill him would be like someone deciding to destroy a portion of wall.

Of course, there are those who get very angry and ram their fists into the wall, knocking it down brick by brick, simply to vent their anger. There are those who kill merely for the pleasure it gives them. These people exist, and they can be everywhere. They could be watching you at this very moment, about to strike, but that would cause paranoia, and I assuredly would not want to give you that. Anyway, these people do not care about whom they kill, or why they kill them. They kill when they have nothing else to do, lacking any motive but boredom.

One of these people was Tom Riddle Jr., a.k.a. The Dark Lord, a.k.a. You-Know-Who, a.k.a. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, a.k.a. Lord Voldemort. On a chilly December night, shortly after being reincarnated, he entered Mr. Dunnery's house without trepidation. John was sitting in his chair by the fire, and jumped up when he saw the tall, ghostly pale man enter his house. He was sure that the door had been locked.

"Avada Kedavra." And his death was as unimportant and unnoticeable as his life had been. Without care or feeling for this man, Voldemort left, satisfied by his ruthless murder of the Muggle.

Nobody ever cared about John Dunnery. He was as transparent as a film of water. Nobody gave him a second thought. Not even his murderer.


End file.
